


The Worst Journey in the World

by ignipes



Series: The Lost Years (Harry Potter) [3]
Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-09-20
Updated: 2004-09-20
Packaged: 2017-10-02 21:47:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ignipes/pseuds/ignipes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>January, 1987. Remus Lupin goes to Antarctica and talks to a penguin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Worst Journey in the World

"I beg your pardon. You don't mind if I nip down here out the wind, do you? My ship has been delayed, Merlin knows why--

"You wouldn't know if there are pirates in these waters, would you? Ice bandits, renegade researchers, frozen freebooters, highwaymen of the high seas, that sort of thing? Oh, careful there. No need to move over, plenty of room for everyone here, calm down. Didn't mean to ruffle your feathers.

"Yes. I know. You hear it all the time. I apologize.

"That Apsley bloke was right, you know, you really do have it worse than anyone in the world. Take a look around. I doubt you've done much travelling--not a holiday-taking species, are you--but I can assure you, this landscape before us is positively lunar--oh, no, sorry again. No sudden movements. My knowledge of avian psychology is rather limited--it's not a field many wizards pursue, you see, though I daresay I don't understand the lack of interest. One need only spend five minutes meeting so ancient and reptilian a gaze before understanding that there is much more to you than hydrodynamics and natural selection.

"But I do understand about sudden movements. A bit nervous about them myself.

"If it isn't pirates, what do you suppose is keeping them? The weather looks clear enough. Grey, yes, but that is the norm down here. When the sun broke through two--no, three--days ago, I was so surprised by the light and the glare and all the sparkling I very nearly fell overboard. First Mate Bersvendsen certainly had a laugh at my expense, not that I blame him. Everything I do amuses him. I don't mind, not really, as he's a fine bloke, despite the moustache and the rum. Why Norwegian sailors in the Weddell Sea are so attached to rum is beyond me. There are as many alcoholic beverages between Norway and the Weddell Sea as there are degrees of latitude, yet they choose rum.

"He has a rather odd attachment to Irish pub music, as well. He may, in fact, be a man I don't meet everyday, but it is a bit unnerving for him to be humming about it just before he kisses me. 'Acres of land, men at command...'

"I don't suppose you've ever tasted rum. Fish, that's a taste you know, the one flavour a high-latitude maritime gourmand such as yourself can really get your tongue around.

"You know, I don't even know if you have a tongue. You must. I shan't ask you to open up; that is clearly a breach of etiquette, even in so intimate a situation as this.

"But I do enjoy his company, despite the moustache and ever-present taste of rum, and even the puns. Oh, the puns. Shakespeare is surely rolling in his grave. Bjorn again, indeed. I am fated to spend my life snogging men who insist upon making puns on their own names.

"'The Quiet Englishman,' he calls me. Does that surprise you? I admit I am rather laconic around other men, but there is something so candid about the way animals listen, especially birds. Your sincerity inspires trust. 'All the world loves a penguin,' wrote Mr. Cherry-Garrard, and right he was. I don't have to worry that you're thinking about me going round the bend, because you're thinking about fish. I suppose it's--well, I try not to dwell on it.

"I don't really mind the taste of rum. I suppose I oughtn't complain.

"I'm just going to uncap this vacuum flask here and have a sip. No sudden movements. No need to panic. Go ahead, curve your elegant head away. It's only tea, you know. 'So be easy and free when you're drinking with me.' Tea in the Antarctic. Tea on the Weddell Sea. The wilderness has succumbed to the trappings of civilization.

"This is history in the making, you know. Don't look at me like that, Ancient Eyes of the Southern Hemisphere. I know I'm not dressed for the occasion--yes, yes, you've heard that one before, terribly sorry. But you must understand I marched across all this ice because some shady bloke in Cairo passed along a manuscript and--oh, there we are again, the All-Knowing Gaze of Evolutionary Wisdom. If you continue staring I do believe I'll begin to blush.

"If I weren't certain that you imperial types aren't terrestrial predators, that hungry gaze might be cause for alarm.

"But I know what that looks says. I've seen it often enough. That's the look that says, 'Remus John Lupin, you are a bloody fool for spending all your days translating manuscripts purchased from shady antiquities dealers in Cairo, and you really ought to know better than to sail to _bloody_ _Antarctica_, of all places, on the word of some barking historian who called himself Nabeel the Nebulous Necromancer.'

"This may be the first time in my life I wish I had a beverage other than tea in my grasp. 'So come fill up your glasses with brandy and wine....' A sip of brandy wouldn't be amiss just now. Nor a great noisy greedy swallow.

"It's the same look old Kettleburn gave me, when I told him my plans. _Antarctica, eh, Lupin? Trying for all seven continents?_ Which isn't really fair, as I haven't visited either of the Americas, nor Australia. But he was right, of course. If there are magical creatures on this frozen continent, the Nebulous Necromancer's Burrowing Brollachan is not one of them.

"'...whatever it costs I will pay....'

"A bit of history, it is. Something for you to share with your children--your hatchlings? Your chicks? I wonder how you speak of them, when you speak amongst yourselves. I am certainly not the first Englishman to go mad whilst huddling in the lee of a jagged outcrop on the Antarctic coast. I am not even the first wizard to trade his robes for these ridiculous waterproof trousers. Balson Beagleson attempted to form a wizarding colony in Queen Maud Land, not far from here, about twenty years ago. Spouting some nonsense about the Antarctic Treaty being meant to include wizards as well as Muggles, though I doubt he informed the Muggles of his territorial claims. Didn't count on the wizarding obsession with civilized comforts, old Beagleson didn't, and eventually gave up his delusions of polar grandeur when he learned--the hard way, no doubt, although his reports would have it otherwise--that even the most trusted heating charms fail in the Antarctic winter. Wizards always forget that even magic has rules.

"No wizard in his right mind would willingly wear these insulated trousers. The clothing of exploration was clearly designed by men far more intrepid than I, men who were born with grand visions in their minds, sweeping dreams of charging across the ice with enviably long strides and several yapping dogs to haul their supplies.

"Or to eat, when luck turns ill. Such is the life of the Antarctic explorer. Uncomfortable trousers and frozen dog meat.

"'Well I took out my dog and him I did shoot, all down in the County Kildare....'"

"I apologize; I can see my singing alarms you. But my point is, while there is a long and respectable history of idiotic white men sailing to the bottom of the world and freezing to death, I am without a doubt the very first werewolf to have done so. Amundsen? No werewolves in his crew. We were only truly acknowledged by the Norwegians after the Second World War, strange twist of history, that. Most wizards don't know Petter Dahl was a werewolf. But that's a story for another time. Scott? No werewolves in his crew. A pity, he could have used a few men whose bodies can resist the cold just a bit better than your run-of-the-mill British sea-jack.

"I wonder if, when provisions ran low, they would have eaten the werewolves. Think about it. No sense in pretending they would consider us human, and yet there is the unanswered question as to whether ingestion of werewolf flesh can transmit lycanthropy.

"You know, I never thought I'd say it, but I am rather glad there remains at least one unanswered question about lycanthropy.

"Yes, it is interesting to think about, but my thoughts are moving on, do try to keep up--why are you fussing with that stone there? It's a perfectly ordinary stone. No fish beneath that stone, I can assure you.

"Still no sign of the ship. I can't help but wonder why you have suffered my chatter all this time. Don't you have a colony to see to? Fish to catch? Cool, dark waters through which to glide? You're not injured, are you? Perhaps the wife's being a bit of a shrew? Bit of a hen? Yes, you don't need to tell me, I know that one was quite awful, and you have every right--as a defender of penguin wit and humour--to pluck my eyes out.

"Not that I mind the company, of course not. It's just--well, there's no denying it, I would much rather be back in that cupboard-sized cabin, curled up on the bunk with a thick wool blanket and a thicker moustached Norwegian sailor with rum on his breath and Jock Stewart on his mind.

"That isn't a very nice thing to say. He may not be in the running for the Ignathia Wildsmith Award for Inescapable Ingenuity, but he can do things with his tongue you wouldn't believe. A sight better than Mary Margaret Muldoon--not that I ever really found out what Mary Margaret could do with her tongue. But it has never once occurred to Bjorn to insist that we hide in a dusty broom closet, or clasp our sweaty palms while strolling wretchedly about Hogsmeade for all the school to see. Do penguins have adolescences, I wonder? Is there a stage of your lifecycle in which your lads go to great and terrible lengths to catch the largest fish, preen the smoothest feathers, race each other sliding down the iceberg, that sort of thing? I certainly hope not. I would hate to think that creatures who every day brave the harshest environment on the planet are also troubled by something so appallingly inane as puberty.

"It isn't fair, really, to use dear Mary Margaret as a standard. I imagine she's married a nice wizard from Cork and is expecting her third child by now.

"Alas, I don't seem to have a very wide range of experience by which to set my standards. Though there was Lady Chatwin's son.

"I suppose the fact that even now, ten thousand miles from Kenya, I still--but he was charming, if always in a bit of a hurry Well. With a mother like that, I'd be in a hurry, too. Only my hurry would be to the nearest international Portkey and away from that darkest heart of the darkest continent. It wasn't very kind of me, was it, to leave him there, with his flame trees and Erumpents and experimental potions. Not exactly the sort of experiments one writes up for _Perilous Potions_, mind. I never saw so many colours in my life as I did that night. I spent hours trying to figure out what that indigo Erumpent was saying to me.

"To this day, I still wonder.

"'And a roving young fellow I've been.'

"So you see, historical precedent aside, I have quite a good reason for not wanting to become the first werewolf to freeze to death in Antarctica. I have a soft bunk and hot tea and warm strong arms waiting for me--if he ever turns his bloody ship back this way.

"And I've got 'A Man You Don't Meet Every Day' running through my head, so it will even be a bit of a relief when the moustache starts humming again.

"It may have occurred to you, attentive as you are to this discourse, that there are in fact two unanswered questions in the study of lycanthropy. The first is the possibility of transmitting lycanthropy by ingesting werewolf flesh. We've already established that you are not a terrestrial predator, and we can safely posit that I am not now--nor will I ever be, barring humiliating transfiguration mishaps--a fish, so, unfortunately, that question must remain unanswered for the duration of our acquaintance.

"The second question is, of course, in reference to the midnight sun. I believe I have read everything ever written in or translated into English about werewolves, and I have never come across any discussion of how the changes are affected by a never-setting sun. The moon is still full after all, even when the sun just skims around the horizon like a Spiral-Charmed Snitch.

"If I weren't so uncomfortable in these trousers, I might consider extending my Antarctic expedition with the goal of addressing that very question.

"It would require awkward explanations.

"Also, I'm quite certain it has already been answered by somebody, somewhere. There are werewolves in Canada, Scandinavia. Even a few up in Siberia--escaped from the Gulag, when the Russian magical officials were elsewhere occupied, sending their Aurors off to be killed by Grindelwald. Set up an enclave in so forsaken a place even the Communists couldn't find it. Greetings, Comrade Wolf. I don't suppose you know how to say 'Good morning' in Russian?

"It is difficult for new information about lycanthropy to find a respectable publisher.

"Now, if I were to devise a werewolf-killing potion using penguin blood and feathers, crushed Antarctic stones, fish scales, and cheap rum, that would surely merit an article in _Perilous Potions_.

"Oh, don't look at me like that. I'm utter rubbish with potions anyway. Lady Chatwin's son is ten thousand miles away--lying alone and awake in that miserable bungalow, I imagine, blushing idiotically at the mere thought of a man glancing his way. As if he weren't a grown man himself. As if he's still a boy in short trousers gaping stupidly at the villagers stitching an Erumpent's skin together to keep from wasting blood, while his mother hides in her curtained parlour with her opium and lace. I wonder if I was ever that shy. It's a victory to get more than a dozen words from him on any subject besides his blundering beasts.

"I wonder why I didn't realize just how impossible that relationship was, when the very first thing he told me was his memory of an Erumpent blood ceremony.

"He believed it, you know. All that nonsense he learned from the Ruma shamans, their theories about the nature of space and time that would set any Muggle physicist's head spinning. They believe there is no time; there is nothing that can be delineated into 'past', 'present', and 'future'. There is no history, except what exists as stories and myths shared around the fire, in this dark night, with this breath. And that is where the Erumpent blood comes into it; Erumpents are apparently the one creature that transcends this limitation, and by drinking their blood, the shamans can grasp a bit of--of whatever it is they're missing by being ordinary and human. Whatever the Erumpents have, it flows in their blood, but only when hot and pulsing from the vein.

"Merlin, he had a beautiful smile.

"Your blood and feathers are quite safe with me.

"So is Bjorn's rum, for that matter.

"'So come fill up your glasses with brandy--'"

"But even--even though I do quite enjoy it--enjoy him, I mean--the kissing, and the rest--

"It isn't quite as good as Sirius.

"It never is.

"Yes, give me your all-knowing avian glare. I quite deserve it.

"But there's no sense in lying when my confidant is an overdressed aquatic bird who seems to be listening only because he can't be bothered to shuffle home across the frozen waste.

"That's the first time I've said his name aloud. Since--since he killed them.

"Cowardly, isn't it? Avoidance is very much not the Gryffindor way, Master Penguin. Lady Chatwin's son knew what I was on about. He saw me closing my eyes; he was simply too repressed to say it. Chap had no idea what he was getting into, taking for his lover a werewolf whose most vivid memories are of groping a mass murderer-in-the-making beneath the Quidditch stands in the rain. Mud everywhere. Mud on our hands, mud in his hair--he looked a right mess, not the least bit dashing, none of that casual elegance he worked so hard to cultivate.

"And there was that moment--rain lashing all about, both of us shivering and nervous and stupid and that anxious half-smile of his--

"I don't know what to do with that moment.

"Even now--

"I read somewhere--some Muggle scientists, physicists or mathematicians--life isn't about balance, it's...wilder than that. Unstable, unpredictable. So fundamentally chaotic that even the best Seers and centaurs are merely grasping at smoke. There's no settling. There's no way to tally up the components of a natural system and say, 'This here means tonight it will rain, this here means the flame trees will die from drought in ten years' time.' There's no way to order the moments of a life and say, 'This will lead to joy, this will lead to sorrow.' First kisses, brilliant smiles, quiet Sunday mornings--memories without a proper place--at some point the equation breaks down, laughter plus comfort plus tangled blankets on a shared bed, the sight of him in my old jumpers, silly fussing after the full moon, and tenderness, his hands--suddenly it adds up to something evil and raw--

"And what I'm left with--

"I spend my life flashing through moments, hot to cold, light to dark, noise to silence.

"That letter from the ministry, the one they sent when I turned seventeen. I still have it folded up in my old History of Magic textbook, on the page about Morgana Quircke's advances in Healing during the Crimean War. Strange that I remember it, that picture of Morgana Quircke in her demure wrap and sensible brown robes.

"It's signed by Residia A. Kandeldandel. I saw her name in the _Prophet _a few years ago, an old outdated copy of the _Prophet_ at the Ministry embassy in Shanghai. I don't even remember what the article was about, just that I recognized that ridiculous name, and I thought, 'That's the one, that's the witch who wrote my letter.'

"_Enclosed is a list of books, articles, and Ministry publications every sentient Dark Creature is advised to acquire and peruse for a greater understanding of the Concerns and Motivations it may encounter while attempting to maintain itself in Human Society. Those Creatures who are unable to read at a level considered satisfactory for self-sufficient comportment may request assistance from the Beast Division in the form of illustrated pamphlets and supervised instruction._

"I read through the list quite diligently. I didn't know what else to do. A list of books and articles--a list is a tangible task, an achievable goal. So I read them all. I was probably the first--and only--werewolf ever to have done so.

"_Hunting the Wolves of Wales_, B.B. Bowen, 1872. Bernard Bentley Bowen. The famous werewolf hunter of Cardiff. Started out life as a shepherd, you know. Father drank away the family holdings, and Bernard set out to find a more financially rewarding pursuit than shamefacedly hauling his father out of pubs each night. After his first kill, he told the authorities that a werewolf had slaughtered his mother when he was a lad. It was a lie, but the Wizengamot agreed that B.B. Bowen's actions were quite acceptable. You see, his fear of werewolves was real enough, even if his childhood memories were not. Because a werewolf very well _could have_ killed his mum--had consumption not got her first--young Bowen was lauded for relieving the world of a man who _might have_ become a menace, quite possibly next month, surely the month after, at the very latest.

"_And Ye, upon learning of the locality of the Most Horrid Beast, to the village I travelled with much haste, and there did learn the Truth of the Monster's Secret Concealment_._ Two days I prepared my Courage and Weaponry, for the full moon was upon nearly. Villagers of all manner of Rank and Stature did speak lengthy discourse of advice, though I found there was little brought forth which I had not discovered in my exertions. The Nature of the Beast is one of ravenous appetite, for Fresh Kill and for Other, ne'er compelled to admit satisfaction, nor to withdraw challenge even when faced with Human Intellect and Skill which far outpaces the endurance of every wildest creature...._

"Oh, they laughed over that. James and Peter...and Sirius. I spent days blushing crimson at every mention of my 'ravenous appetite', my inability to 'withdraw challenge'.

"Eventually, I laughed, too. Better to laugh at stupidity than wallow in self-pity. It was easy to laugh, when we were gathered in the dormitory, sprawled on the beds and floor, sharing sweets and jokes and jibes. A sly wink asking if I would 'admit satisfaction' over a lost game of chess. A mess of robes and ties, books, parchments, and broomsticks. It was impossible to move three steps without stumbling. The best nights--those winter nights, when the snow started just after dark, we spent the evening playing cards and laughing and sneaking surreptitious glances out the window, old enough to be embarrassed by our own giddy excitement over a blizzard, but not old enough to quash the excitement, never quite old enough for that.

"It occurs to me--I don't know--can birds weep? Phoenikoi certainly can, but I imagine they are, at best, a very distant relation to penguins. Rather like turtles to toads on the phylogenetic tree. Sea and ice and storms--if natural selection knows what it's about--have you evolved the ability to mourn, or is it redundant when every generation is a study in hardship?

"I thought it was a safe place. A fortress. Walls against the wind, against the cold.

"I am vaguely insulted that B.B. Bowen's abysmal grammar occupies so permanent a place in my memory. If one must write about my 'ravenous appetite, for Fresh Kill and for Other,' the very least one can do acquire a passable grasp of the English language. It is the perhaps the saddest truth of life as a werewolf: I am forever doomed to spend my days scorned and reviled by wizards who have no regard for the sanctity of proper capitalisation.

"This ridiculous mental pacing--two steps forward, three steps back--you must be wondering how these ungainly hairless two-legged beasts have survived even a single winter on your formidable shores, much less how we endure year after year. I wonder it myself. Tossing darts at a map, blowing dust off a book, surrendering to the aches and obstacles of Muggle transportation. Does it look like a journey, to an impartial observer? A story, perhaps, an adventure? A bloody _archetype_?

"There is no fortress. There never was. This ridge of stone, that field of ice, the storms, the waves, the skies so relentlessly grey, so restless--erosion always wins in the end. Why build a tower at all, when the wind will spend a thousand years tearing it down?

"And all that's left? All that's left are echoes, shadows, excavation pits filling with sand. A tower crumbling in the desert. Ghosts of barbarians, wailing at the gate. Bits of pottery, bones, scenes scratched in stone. My entire life, a collection of pictographs: child, wolf, moon.

"I will not say 'star'.

"You can stop looking at me like that.

"What do you suppose happen to a man who drinks werewolf blood? If Erumpent blood can make a man more than human, what then--

"I have no fucking idea what I'm doing here.

"'And a roving young fellow I've been, so be easy and free--' Oh, what's this?

"Can it be the _Viking Victory_\--stupid name for a ship, that--ploughing the waves? Well, that's good. They haven't forgotten me after all. A sip of rum and a bowl of soup await me, Your Imperial Highness, so I must beg your permission to depart. It has been a delightful afternoon--your conversation is more fascinating than most wizards', by a good measure. I will recall your ancient and sober gaze with fondness.

"I don't think I shall ever return to Antarctica. It's too bloody cold."


End file.
